“W-what . . .” I stammered as he dug in his pocket, and my pulse hammered as he jiggled what had to be the master ring.

“I’m sorry, Rachel,” he said as he took my wrist, lifting my hand to slide the master ring over the slaver. “I should have trusted you.”

“Damn right you—” My voice cut off as the rings touched. A wash of heat flooded through me, and Bis opened his wings and made an odd burble of sound, clearly happy.

Still holding my hand, Trent shifted his grip to become more gentle, less possessive. I looked at my hand, seeing two rings on my finger. I was hardly breathing when Trent easily slid both the rings off.

“I’d rather be your slave than Ku’Sox’s,” Trent said, and I wavered where I stood as he put both rings in my hand and curled my fingers over them.

Shocked, I looked up at him, seeing in his downcast expression his regret, his embarrassment, and his anger at himself. My distrust wavered, threatening to break apart like fog under the heat of truth. I needed to listen with my heart, not my hurt feelings.

“Sa’han,” Quen pleaded, and Trent frowned as he turned away. Bis, though, beamed, the tip of his tail quivering.

“I was wrong,” Trent said, and a flash of righteous hurt lit through me.

“Damn right you were wrong!”

“I should have told you.”

The rings felt warm in my hand, and I clenched my fist tighter. “I know!”

Trent looked up, leaning slightly to keep his weight off his one foot. He looked tired, fatigued, and the barest hint of relief colored his eyes. “If I had a plan that included slavers, I should have told you so you could have made a more informed decision as to which rings you were going to reinvoke.”

There was a lump in my throat, and I swallowed hard. He was becoming what his people needed, and I wasn’t part of that—except perhaps at the fringes, where a demon always was. “And?” I prompted, voice shaking.

“And I’m sorry,” he said, the tiniest hint of pleading hidden behind his calm voice ringing through me. “I’ll do better next time.”

Next time?

He reached across the small space between us, and as Quen quietly voiced his protest with a dramatic sigh, Trent turned my fist over and opened it up. His touch was warm on my wrist, and then my palm as he nudged the smaller slave ring from the other and . . . slipped it over his pinkie.

“Trent, no!” I said, reaching out, but he hid his hand behind his back, his eyes daring me to try to take it. “What are you doing?”